It All Started in Stalingrad
by crazypony37
Summary: One day, one day is all it takes to change everything. It's been a year since he joined SHIELD and nothing terribly out of the ordinary has happened to Clint, that is until he was sent to Stalingrad. What should be a standard hit-and-go mission is liable to change everything. Rated T for language and mild violence.
1. Chapter 1

I had this one prevailing idea stuck in my head so I wrote it down and voila! This story takes place when Clint was first added to SHIELD. It is sort of a mix of the cinematic universe, the comic universe, and my own head cannon. Treat it like an AU if that bugs you.

Also if you really like it, tell me because I do have ideas for more chapters.

* * *

Night had fallen on the city, replacing natural light with the artificial glow of street lamps. The temperature had dropped a good ten degrees and a light snowfall had begun. From his perch upon some random rooftop, Clint watched his breath turn to fog in the cold air. _Winter time in Stalingrad_ he thought to himself.

He had been positioned in his spot, five stories up, for about three hours, staring at what must be one of the least appealing parts of the city. Below him was a courtyard, or rather an open space between decrepit buildings. Encircled by the graffiti covered structures were two bushes and a park bench that was one fat ass away from collapsing. Clint had nicknamed it The Waiting Room, used by the "pharmacists" in the alley to his right, and soon to be used by the unfortunate person he was sent to wait for.

Coulson had him on sniper duty. It wasn't his favorite thing to do, but now that SHIELD had deemed his aim an asset, it was likely all he would ever do. All he could do really. Coulson had convinced Fury to bend enough rules to get him sworn in and sent through basic training. SHIELD wasn't in the habit of hiring seventeen year old felons, and they certainly weren't going to send any on undercover missions. The archer could either snipe or go back to serving twenty-five to life.

"Barton are you paying attention?"

A smooth voice chirped in his left ear. Clint pressed a finger against the earpiece, responding to the man.

"You know Coulson, if you're just going to sit and watch me what's the point of this mission? Couldn't you just shoot the target?"

"Don't get snarky. You may have been with SHIELD for almost a year now, but six months of that was training. You're still on probation."

"Yeah, yeah" he mumbled.

A small smirk played across his lips when he noticed movement in the windows across the street. Clint was convinced the Agent's observation had less to do with probation and more to do with genuine concern. Clint wasn't prone to trusting anyone – not anymore at least - but something about the suited man was fundamentally trustworthy. His presence relaxed Clint. Coulson often said the young blond had the opposite effect.

"So when is this party gonna' start? My fingers are starting to freeze."

"Did you even read the mission file?"

"No, that's your job."

Clint could almost _hear_ the eye roll.

"Your target is a particularly dangerous agent, that's why we're waiting at a distance. We do not know when they will arrive, only that they live two floors down from my location."

"So we wait."

Clint sighed, shifting into a more comfortable position. The snow was falling faster now, making it necessary for him to flip up the hood of his jacket.

"Fuck it's cold," he muttered through chattering teeth.

"Language."

"Phil, I'm here to shoot someone. Let's have a little perspective here."

"Watch your mouth."

It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes. He was about to continue the argument when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Running through the streets was a woman dressed in all black. The left sleeve of her coat was torn and Clint had a feeling the stains down he front weren't barbeque sauce. He pulled his bow closer.

"That her Coulson?"

"Yes, take your shot when you have it."

Clint affirmed his orders, reaching backwards into his quiver as he did so. He grabbed what he knew to be a lethal arrow and notched it, simultaneously aiming the bow. There was a scope mounted on the weapon (why he wasn't sure, he didn't really need it) through which he could clearly see the woman's face. Her skin was pale except for her cheeks which were red from the cold, almost as read as the curls framing her face. Emerald green eyes were searching the area around her, looking everywhere but up.

She was gorgeous, no doubt about that, but it wasn't her beauty that had Clint slowly releasing the tension of his bow. It was her age, or rather lack of it. She couldn't be more than sixteen.

"Coulson, she's a child!"

"Just because you turned eighteen last month and are now considered a legal adult, doesn't give you the right to call everyone a child."

Clint rose from his sitting position to crouch on his knees. He tracked the girl's movements across the courtyard, not taking his eyes of her for a second.

"No look at her, really look."

The redhead was darting from obstacle to obstacle, hiding behind everything she could find. Periodically she would glance behind her, looking for something that wasn't there, yet. Somebody, or thing, was chasing her.

"I'm repositioning myself." Clint stated before rising to a standing position. That proved to be a mistake. AS soon as he stood her head whipped towards him. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and then she was off, running through the streets again.

"Shit," Clint hissed. "I'm in pursuit."

The blond ran to the edge of the building, thankful he had thought to set up a repel line earlier. He was on the ground in seconds, chasing after the girl.

"You don't have to be at close range to use arrows Barton."

"Yeah… I won't be using those."

She had left his line of sight by now, but thankfully there was enough snow on the ground for her feet to leave impressions.

"This is not mission protocol."

"Screw the rules, I was in the circus!"

With that he muted his mic. He was sure to get hell for that later, but it was the least of his troubles now. He didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to kill the girl, wouldn't kill the girl. She was running from something, scared and probably drugged by the looks of her staggered footprints. Whoever she was, she needed help and whether she liked it or not, he was going to give it to her. It was uncharacteristically altruistic of the archer, but it wouldn't be the first thing to have changed since he started his new, slightly more legal job.

Clint followed her into an alley, which probably wasn't his brightest idea. It was a dead-end, something she realized before he did. Once she got as far down as she could, the redhead rounded on Clint, pivoting like a ballerina. Her hair flew in a wave behind her, a solid curtain of scarlet ringlets. Her eyes flashed with danger as she took steps back towards Clint. She was like a raging goddess. He was awed to say the least.

A low whistle escaped his lips. "Has anyone told you how magnificent you are when angry?"

She only snarled. Idioms concerning cornered felines came to mind. He was starting to see why SHIELD wanted her gone. Their moment glaring at each other in the snow was interrupted by three men. They had come up behind Clint, their heavy winter coats just as stained as the girl's.

The three stooges were shouting in some language that was not English, Russian most likely. The redhead answered right back, snarl intensified tenfold.

"These the people you're running from?"

Cling gestured to the men, He didn't get an answer from the girl, not that he expected one. She was arguing with the men, who were reaching for the guns he assumed they had holstered at their waists. All Clint was really doing was standing in the alley, just asking to be caught in the crossfire. The man closest to him eventually realized he was there. The bearded goon motioned to Clint and asked the girl something. He must have asked who Clint was to which the girl would have responded with something along the lines of "no one," because the guy was definitely reaching for his gun now. Clint was a witness to something they didn't want anyone to see.

The blond didn't wait to find out what the Russian was going to do. Within an instant he had an arrow notched and sent it though the man's heart. The other two shouted, stepping towards Clint, but were stopped short when throwing knives embedded themselves in their throats. Clint lowered the arrow he was just about to notch, turning to the redhead. Her arms were still outstretched, her body frozen in throwing position.

"You're fast," he muttered. "And deadly. Fast and deadly and still gorgeASACK!"

He shouldn't have left his guard down. The moment he had, the girl came running, wrapping her thighs around his neck. It wasn't erotic in the least bit, it was terrifying. Clint could feel his airway closing, crushed by the sheer force of her grip. He wrapped his arms around her body, now dangling from his neck, and slammed them both against the brick wall of the alley. She released, gasping in pain when her head connected with the solid surface. He choked on the sudden inflow of air, but quickly recovered and pinned her against the wall. It didn't take her long to get out of his hold.

They backed away from the wall, trading blows as they circled each other. Clint couldn't help but notice how different their fighting styles were. He had learned to fight out of necessity. Experience had taught him what hurt most and how to inflict that pain on others. He had no real style, he simply took shots when he saw them and he was not below taking some cheap ones. SHIELD training had forced him to learn some organized styles, but he still relied on what was ingrained in habit. She was obviously highly trained, every bit as disciplined as Clint was scrappy. Her kicks and jabs always landed where they would most effectively disable her opponent. However, as their fight continued she started getting sloppy.

Clint watched as she got progressively slower. Her eyes glazed over and her breathing morphed into something closer to hyperventilating. Some one – probably the dead guys behind them – had most assuredly drugged her, and it was starting to take its toll. He could see why they would do that. Even as her age she would have been damn near impossible to take down sober.

"You need to calm down!" he shouted.

She didn't listen, but instead kicked him in the stomach. He managed to grab ahold of her ankle on her next kick. He rotated it, forcing her to face away from him and extend her leg backwards to avoid wrenching the joint. Her other leg was promptly kicked out from under her and she went toppling to the ground. Clint jumped on top of her, pushing her lean body into the snow. She struggled, shouting in Russian and trying to slip out from under him, but she didn't have the energy. She stopped moving after a while and just laid in the powder white snow quietly mumbling.

Clint let out a deep sigh; they were done, for now. He had to say he was pretty surprised no one had come to investigate. You would think that at least someone would have heard the noise. Then again the lack of curiosity was probably why she chose to live here. Then he remembered his handler.

Where the hell was Coulson? Now that the girl had calmed down, he could spare a hand and turn the volume back up on his comm. His fingers hadn't even touched the surface of the small device when he heard the crunch of feet on snow.

"No need Barton. I'm right here."

Agent Coulson came walking up the alley, stepping around the three men.

"You were sent for one girl Clint, and you left her alive and killed three others."

"Yeah! Well where were you when all this was going down?"

Clint looked to the older man looming above him. The suited man did not look happy at all.

"There were two men who didn't make it into the alley."

Clint noted the lump beginning to form on the man's temple and the lack of sarcasm in his voice. He was in some deep shit, but he doubted he would regret anything he had done. His gut instinct told him he was right and that somehow keeping her alive would work out in the long run. He didn't respond to Coulson, he couldn't figure out a way to explain his assuredness. He simply looked at the man, hoping he would understand without words like he always did. After a minute Coulson sighed.

"You could probably get off her now. She doesn't seem to be going anywhere."

Clint looked at the girl beneath him. She was asleep now, or close to it. He rolled to the left, lying on his back and accepting the hand offered to help him up.

"Someone has slipped her a healthy dose of roofies. She needs medical attention." Clint informed his handler.

He leaned down, wrapping one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. When he stood up he tried his best not to shake her. She seemed lighter than she should be, like she hadn't had a good meal in some time.

"You can't bring her with us."

Coulson's expression was incredulous.

"Watch me."

Clint marched down the alley carrying the redhead. She was limp in his arms, prompting him to shift her head so it rested on his shoulder. She would have enough pain when she woke up, she didn't need a wrenched neck.

He took a moment to figure out where the prearranged evac sight was in relation to their current position, and then set off towards it. Coulson was left in the alley to watch the teenager as he limped away. The girl must have injured his left leg in the fight.

"Six months," Coulson muttered a slight trace of a smile on his lips. "Six months and the kid's already compromised."

* * *

There we go! Bam!

Thank you to any of you who read this and please let me know if you like it! I'll probably post my other chapter ideas anyways but it's nice to know that people want to see them besides me.


	2. Chapter 2

Woo! Some of you are interested in this which makes me immensely happy. I finished up my half written second chapter for you as a gift. There will be more at mostly regular intervals, but don't expect them to be out as swiftly as this one.

* * *

Natasha woke up in a white room lying on a bed, the bright lights and strong smell of antiseptic nearly overpowering her aggravated senses. _Hospital room?_ She pondered. She heard a cough from outside the room, bringing her attention to the two armed guards standing by her door. _No I'm in someone's medical bay._

She tried to move, but found herself immobile. Looking down revealed a set of restraints tying her to the bed. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes simply because she knew it would agitate the throbbing headache pounding a steady beat behind her temples. Did they really think some restraints and two guards would keep her in the room? There was a reason she was the longest surviving member of the Widow Program. _Longest surviving so far_ she amended silently.

The cuffs were a joke, it took barely any skill to slip from their grasp. The guards were just as easy to take care of. Her bare feet made it possible to creep across the room without a sound. When she was behind the men she grabbed their heads, bringing them together with enough force to knock them out cold. The hardest part of the whole ordeal was dragging their bodies out of the hall.

Once the guards were properly hidden, she did a once over of the room. She needed clothes before she could leave, running through the base in a hospital gown would defeat the purpose of stealth. Her clothes weren't in the room, but that didn't sadden her. They'd been torn and bloody anyways. It was a bit of a surprise to find that someone had left clothes on a chair in the corner; a pair of jeans and a simple purple t-shirt. Natasha put them on without hesitation. They were too big for her, but tucking the shirt in and tightening the belt that came with the pants kept them from falling off.

She went to the door and moved down the left side of the hall, hoping it would lead to an exit. The drugs had left large blanks in her memory, including the layout of whatever facility she was being held in. She remembered flashes of a fight and the stupid blond who didn't know when to shut up, or kill his targets apparently. She decided not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't killed him when she'd had the chance.

The end of the hallway loomed in front of her, forcing her to take a right turn through an open doorway. A man walked under the archway at the same time, colliding with Natasha as she tried to slip through.

"Whoah there sweetie. What's the rush?"

The man was taller than she was and considerably older. His dark hair was streaked with silver as was the mustache brushing the rim of the coffee mug he was sipping from.

"Oh I'm sorry!" her American accent was flawless, as it should be. She hadn't practiced for nothing.

"It's not a problem, my coffee didn't spill."

"No, no this is my fault. I shouldn't have been rushing."

Natasha schooled her expression into one of baffled innocence.

"You see it's my first week and I was told to leave base and get -"

"The suits from the dry cleaners?"

The older gentleman looked down at her, a slight smile spreading across his face when she nodded her head.

"Happens to every new intern, this place is like a maze."

He pointed down the hall behind him.

"Go that way; take a right, a left, and then another left. You'll be by the elevator which you can take to the top floor and walk right out of here."

"Thank you so much sir."

He waved his free hand in recognition of the thanks, turning to walk away as he did so.

"Just call me Howard."

They parted ways. She swiftly followed the path he had outlined. Her escape was going smoother than planned.

"Идиоты"

* * *

Fury was mad, very mad. So mad that Clint would say he was furious, but he wouldn't because he wasn't stupid and he didn't want to get his head ripped off over a stupid pun.

The director had been ranting and raving for the last half an hour, screaming about anything and everything that had gone wrong today. It didn't surprise Clint at all. He was used to such meetings – he had a tendency to be a bit of a fuck up – and passed the time as he usually did, which meant nodding his head at everything the director said and promising never to do anything stupid again. He had a series of games he played in his head to pass the time. Today he chose to count the number of times Fury slammed his hands on the table. He was up to ten slams in the last seven minutes.

"Your mission was to kill her Barton! At what point did you decide bringing an enemy to the central base of our agency was a good idea?"

"About the same time I decided that killing a drugged sixteen year-old was something I didn't want to do."

Eleven slams.

"You are an agent of SHIELD. The moment you signed your contract you gave up the right to decide what you want to do."

"Well then fuck, why don't we just change the acronym on all our stuff to U.S.S.R.? That would clear up a lot of confusion."

The Director's expression was pure venom. Clint didn't know why he was so impudent all of the sudden, it's not like he hadn't been chewed out like this before. He supposed it was due to his new found conviction. He was right this time, the girl had needed saving. That and the fact that this argument was viciously repetitive and more exhaustive then the physical fight he had gotten into earlier. He really just wanted to go back to his chair in the medical bay and continue his watch. It wouldn't be uncharacteristic of Fury to pull some cloak and dagger shit and get rid of her while he was occupied.

"What did you expect me to do? Leave her drugged up and defenseless in the snow?"

"I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time she was left in a similar situation."

"Which means it's ok for it to happen again?" Clint scoffed. "Wow, my childhood suddenly makes sense now. I never thought my father was logical, I just thought he was an abusive drunk."

Fury's mouth set in an angered line as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He continued the argument, but several decibels lower.

"This mission was supposed to put an end to the trouble she's caused over the last ten years."

"Ten years?" the archer inquired. "How is that even possible? She would have been like what, six?"

"She's been playing this game a lot longer than you Barton."

The tone of the director's voice was gravely serious and, if Clint wasn't mistaken, a tad bit sympathetic, as if he might feel sorry for a child partaking in their line of work. His tone changed as he turned towards Coulson, apparently he was done drilling Clint for now.

"Agent Coulson, I seem to remember something about SHIELD handlers and how they're supposed to make sure their agents don't do something stupid."

"That is the general job description sir."

Clint watched Coulson as he looked up from the file he was reading. The suited man had been sitting at the conference table the whole time, his face an expressionless mask.

"Tell me then, why you didn't make sure Romanov was dead?"

_So that's her name, or at least her last_ Clint thought. He mentally filed the information away with what little else he knew about the redhead. He really needed to start reading his mission briefs. Coulson cleared his throat, and his attention snapped right back to the man. He appeared to be mulling over his words, trying to find the right thing to say. That was bad. It usually meant he was about to say something that would get Clint in even more trouble.

"Agent Barton seemed to think she would be of some use."

He could have smacked Coulson right there. The man was supposed to assist him, fix things, make them better. He _was not_ supposed to redirect the conversation back to his trainees so he could finish the crossword he had hidden behind the file in his lap.

"Is that true Barton?"

Fury's one good eye was focused on him once more.

"Well I just thought …. you know…"

But he hadn't thought, at all. He had no plan, no idea, nothing. The one thought that had come across his mind in Stalingrad was to get the girl help. Now he needed a plan, or at the minimum a solid reason for wanting the keep the girl around, because now Fury was expecting one. Coulson had effectively forced the archer to come up with an explanation for his actions rather than just chalk it up to a morality based impulse. The blond supposed there was a lesson in responsibility to be learned from this, but screw Coulson this wasn't Sesame Street.

"Wouldn't the only thing better than having her gone be having her on our side?"

Clint really hoped the Director considered that a valid point. He thought for a moment that it wasn't going to be accepted and Fury was going to berate him more, but the eye patched man said nothing. However, a voice to their left did respond.

"That might just be a good idea. Nice work kid, you used actual sound logic."

Unbeknownst to them, Howard Stark had slipped through the doors on the conference room. He tended to take liberties like ignoring "Do Not Disturb" signs, but when you founded and funded SHIELD you could. He moved to the table, taking one of the empty seats for himself.

"I didn't know you had a brain in there."

"Well I went to Oz last week and asked the wizard real nicely."

Clint's tone was dripping with sarcasm.

"You know, I used to come here to get away from sarcastic teenagers."

He looked pointedly at Clint before turning to Fury.

"If we are in possession of the Black Widow it would be in our best interest to absorb her. Turing liabilities into assets is good for business."

"I wish it were that simple."

Fury sighed. Clint could tell he was still angry, but not nearly as much as he was before.

"She's been on SHIELD's black list for years. The World Security Council is not going to approve of taking her in, not when she's killed so many of our contacts, witnesses, and a few of our agents without so much as batting an eye."

"She didn't kill me," Clint exclaimed.

"What?"

The director looked to Clint with a slight look of confusion. The blond looked back, making direct eye contact and holding.

"Today in the alley she had the opportunity to slit my throat with a knife, just like she did the others. She didn't though, she mostly succeeded at kicking my ass, but she didn't kill me."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I think it means everything."

Clint was determined not to back down. He hadn't saved her to become an agent, but if that meant all his efforts didn't go to waste than she was going to be an agent. Coulson and Stark were on his side that had to mean the idea had some credibility. Then again Coulson hadn't openly declared and approval and Stark might just be drunk; you could never tell with him. Either way, he had come this far and he was not going to stop.

Fury must have sensed this. He looked at the blond for some time, then at the other men in the room. With each passing second his expression settled into a look of deep frustration, which only worsened when he received a message over his comm. He looked away from the table, with his hand to his ear. When the message was finished, Fury turned back to his companions.

"We may not have a choice in the matter. She's escaped from medical."

Howard's eyes widened as he came to a sudden realization.

"Phil please tell me the redhead with no shoes looking for the front door was actually a new intern you sent to go pick up your suits from the dry cleaners."

Every other man turned to Stark in sheer disbelief.

"Are you stupid!" Fury shouted.

Clint abruptly rose from his chair, pushing it back and sprinting to the door.

"No way," he declared. "You're not leaving after all that!"

He pulled a lever on the nearest wall right next to the fire alarm. Loud sirens began to shriek throughout the building, their shrill cries emphasized by flashing red lights and the rushed footsteps of the SHIELD agents now dashing about the halls. The facility was now in lockdown, all widows and exits were sealed leaving no escape. Assuming she had not already exited, Romanov was trapped in the building. _Looks like it's time for more extreme hide and seek._

* * *

__There we go, chapter two! The third chapter will be up as soon as I get it out of my head and onto paper!

As always I appreciate any and all support you show me through favorites, follows, and reviews.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry this took so long, school kind of snuck up and bit me in the ass. Fortunately for you I only have two more days and then I'm done.

So here in the third chapter in this silly story. **SLIGHT WARNING for mild blood mention. Only a bloody nose, don't worry.**

* * *

Clint sprinted through the dark corridors of the SHIELD base, looking for any sign of the missing redhead. He could barely hear the sound of his own breathing over the alarms and the ruckus of the agents rushing to their red alert stations. A broad shouldered man shouted something to him as he sprinted past, but Clint couldn't understand a word he uttered. He was just starting to regret pulling the lever when the wailing stopped. The red lights ceased flashing and the normal overheads came back on. There was a crackling before a voice spoke through his ear piece.

"You're welcome Barton."

"Coulson, you're a life saver." Clint breathed.

The Agent responded promptly, his tone conveying slight annoyance and a dose of self-satisfaction.

"Well I wasn't listening to that for however long it takes you to find her."

"It shouldn't take _that_ long." Clint admonished.

"Now that she's heard the alarm, Romanoff's going to hide. I doubt you'll find her within the hour."

He halted his advance, stopping just before he turned a corner to think about what Coulson had just said.

"Huh… that alarm really wasn't a good idea."

"No, not really," the agent replied. "We could have sealed the doors from the control room."

The archer shrugged his shoulders and continued. Every hallway he traversed down was empty now, no doubt due to an order issued by one of the three men in the conference room. The only sounds he heard were from his own footsteps on the concrete floor and the dull droning of the ventilation system. Occasionally there would be a thud from something or other, or the whir of a computer fan, but there were no other organic noises. It was really, really creepy. He silenced his own footsteps, hoping to lessen the tension of the moment. His decision did little to improve his situation.

He continued to slip down the halls, taking the turns he knew the redhead would have taken to escape. Finally he reached the elevator Howard had instructed her to use. He didn't waste time searching the area around it. Near the gleaming metal doors were a few potted plants, positioned in a futile attempt to make the military base seem less formidable. Unless she was inside one of them, there was nowhere else to hide.

"Then again…" he mumbled to himself.

He immediately backtracked, and checked the plants anyways. She was a Russian spy after all. Just as he had predicted, they were empty. He moved to the elevator once he was sure they were vacant. To the right of the directional buttons was a small access panel, covered in by a metal hatch. He opened it effortlessly, revealing the keypad that lay underneath. Its only purpose was to dial the override code needed to use the elevator on lockdown.

"Do you need the code?"

Clint jumped, startled by the break in the silence.

"Jesus Coulson! How do you even know where I am?"

"The Director sent me to the security room to watch over the camera feed."

Clint looked to his right. Sure enough placed at the seam between the ceiling and the wall was a security camera. He waved, turning back to the keypad with a smile.

"Thanks for the offer, but I know Stark's general override code."

"Why would he give you, of all people, such dangerous knowledge?"

Coulson actually sounded slightly worried, which only made the archer smile more.

"Howard decided that he had too many numbers to remember, so he delegated some to me. The code was one set."

"One set? What else did he tell you to memorize?"

"Uhm…"

Clint searched his memory while he tapped the seven digit code into the access panel.

"The date of his wedding anniversary, his son's birthday, the first half of his social security number, a few nuclear launch codes-"

"You're kidding right?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."

The elevators slid open and Clint stepped in.

"For the sake of the world, I'm going to have to find Howard a personal secretary. You clearly should be spending far less time around him."

"Aww is someone worried I might replace them with another father figure?"

Coulson snorted.

"Please by all means leave me alone."

"Well don't you worry, there shouldn't be too much of a conflict. You're more like a mom anyways."

"Thank you Barton, now get to work."

The elevator dinged as the doors slid open.

"Will do."

Clint stepped out into the nearly vacated lobby. The ground floor of the facility was as lush as the underground floors were barren, filled with comfy seats and decorated walls. A few agents and Clarice the lobby secretary were still lingering. Clarice was one of SHIELD's more interesting agents. The women in her family had been serving in the organization that later became SHIELD since the 40's, guarding top secret facilities and experiments like the original Super Soldier project. She was about thirty years older than the average recruit, but he knew for a fact she could still kick all of their asses and her aim was one of the deadliest he had ever encountered. She was a raging ball of badassery wrapped up in a grandmotherly package.

Once they saw him, the agents nodded to the blond and left the area. Clarice stood from her post at her desk, stopping next to Clint as she walked towards the elevator.

"Do you need any help Clinton?"

The fifty something year old woman leaned to whisper in his ear. She placed and encouraging hand on his left shoulder.

"I can lend you one of my Ka-bars. I've got about seven on me right now."

The scariest part was she wasn't kidding about the knives. It was one of the many reasons Clint absolutely loved her.

"No thank you Clarice. My friend and I are just having a bit of a misunderstanding. I think I can calm her down without stabbing her."

"But you're covered right?"

Clint smiled at the elderly woman's concerned look. He wiggled his left leg in a hokey-pokey like fashion, showing her where he kept his blade strapped.

"Yes ma'am," he all but chirped.

"Good," she patted his shoulder before lowering her hand back to her side. "I locked the lobby down before the general alarm went off. I didn't remember a redhead coming in, so I wasn't letting one out."

"SHIELD would be in ruins without you."

"Damn right it would," she declared as she left Clint.

She walked towards the elevator without a word, typing in her own code and stepping in. Before the twin doors closed she casually called out to Clint.

"She doesn't know I know, but your friend is over by the bathrooms. Play nice Clinton."

He gave her a small salute before she disappeared behind the metal panels.

"Thank you kindly Clarice."

Clint turned from the descending woman and walked further into the room.

"How come you aren't that polite to me?" Coulson questioned over the comm.

"Because you don't bake me cookies once a week. Plus you said my proposed codename was stupid."

As he chattered, Clint navigated through the lobby. He skirted around the large reception desk covered in brochures – which begged the question, why does a secret agency have brochures? – and took a left down a side hallway. The corridor was empty and dead silent, save for Clint's footsteps on the marble floor.

"You know exactly why I refuse to use your codename, Barton."

"I don't care what you say," the archer lowered his voice one he neared the first restroom door. "Hawkeye is a fucking sweet name."

He tentatively opened the door of the women's room.

"Hello? Anyone in here?"

There was no response, obviously. No one hiding from a person would answer their pursuer. He checked each of the stalls, finding them as empty as the previous silence had suggested. He left the room and moved down the hall.

He found the door to the men's room slightly ajar, which put him on high alert. He opened the door far slower than the first, creeping into the room without making a sound. He skipped the shout out and dropped to the floor. Army crawling across the tile, he checked for any feet under the stalls. Seeing none, he stood back up. Placing his hand on the door he opened the stall closest to the door. There was nothing in it besides the toilet, the same went for the next two in line. By the time he reached the fifth stall, Clint was bored with the lack of results.

"You're not even in here are you?" he lamented as he swung the sixth door open.

A pair of bare feet came rushing at his face, all too eager to prove him wrong. The force of the kick had him lying on his back, clutching his now bloodied nose.

"Fuck! I think you broke it!"

The redhead jumped from her perch on the back of the toilet. She landed on Clint, effectively pinning him to the ground with her body weight. She raised her fists, preparing to strike Clint again if she needed to.

"Barton what happened!" Coulson shouted through the comm.

"She fricken kicked me in the face and I'm pretty sure my nose is broken again. It sure hurts like a son of a-"

Coulson cut the archer off mid rant.

"Is she still attacking you?"

"No she's just sitting on me."

Clint lifted his head off the floor. His blue-gray eyes met the emerald ones of his assailant. Their deadly gleam seemed brighter now that the drugged haze was absent from their depths.

"She won't stop staring at me. It's creepy, like when you're trying to decide which doughnut you want."

"Your humor knows no bounds," Coulson blandly stated. "Do you need me to come up there?"

"No not yet. I have this sneaking suspicion she doesn't like dudes in suits with guns."

Clint was still maintaining eye contact with the girl. Neither had moved in the last few minutes. Clint figured he would have to make the first attempt at lowering the tension. He relaxed his body, letting his muscles unwind like a coiled spring let loose. Her eyes narrowed slightly as he moved, but she made no movement herself. He could hear his adrenaline-fueled pulse beating rapidly behind his ears, so he tried to lower his heart rate. The few deep breaths he took proved futile as they brought in more of the blood gushing from his nose than they did air.

"Hey could you?"

He coughed and sputtered a few times as he waved his hands towards the wall mounted paper towel rack. The girl stared at him a moment before extending her arm towards the roll. She had to stretch her entire torso, but she managed to rip off a wad of towels without lifting her body from his chest.

"Thank you."

He graciously accepted the towels and immediately pressed them to his nose. Pain seared through his body and he leaned into the papers.

"Yep, you definitely broke my nose," he muttered under his breath.

"Why are you not attacking me?"

Clint's eyes shot upward in shock. It was the first time he had heard her say anything besides the feral growling in the alleyway. Her voice was deep, seductive without even trying. Her tone calm, as if she wasn't straddling a profusely bleeding man on the floor of a public bathroom.

"Wow, so you do speak English. I was worried I was going to have to nab one of the annoying translators down in Linguistics."

"Why are you not attacking me?" she repeated in a stern manner.

Her gaze clearly communicated her displeasure with Clint's blank stares. He took a moment more to get over his shock and collect himself.

"Mostly because you're wearing one of my favorite shirts and I don't want to get blood on it."

She looked down at the shirt and rolled her eyes.

"That is not what I meant idiot."

Her gaze sharpened. It had to be one of the most terrifying glares he had ever seen.

"You were supposed to kill me, yes? Yet you did not shoot me on the roof when you had the chance. Then you took me here when I passed out, gave me medical treatment, and your own clothes!" She looked truly astonished. "And now you are relaxing on the floor. Why?"

"Well I had to give you my clothes because I stopped asking the female agents for their clothes after the third slap to the face. As for not killing you, I probably have the same reasons you do."

Clint looked directly into the green orbs boring into his face. They flickered ever so slightly with his statement, a brief flash of worry flying across their surfaces before disappearing.

"It's pretty standard to assassinate an assassin once you know they're coming for you, yet I'm still alive," he continued.

He could tell she was not pleased with his answer. Her expression defied all odds and hardened even further. He was glad there wasn't a gun anywhere in the vicinity, if there was she would most assuredly have it pointed at his face.

"Why?" she growled through clenched teeth.

"Because you were being chased," he blurted.

Clint was just as surprised as the redhead when his words slipped out.

"Someone wants you dead, besides, you know, most government agencies. Judging by how well you knew the alley thugs, I would wager it's your own people who want you gone."

Every muscle in her body froze suddenly; she didn't even seem to be breathing. Clint had hit the nail right on the head.

"You've been disavowed haven't you," he whispered.

She didn't answer as per usual.

"Well I'm no stranger to that." He sat up a little more off the floor. "Fortunately for you, I might just have a solution. How would you like a legitimate job? SHIELD is pretty good at taking in agents and protecting them, if I'm anything to go by."

His monologue was interrupted by a loud stomach growl. He looked to the offending digestive system, smiling up at its redheaded owner.

"We also have a top notch kitchen. I mean I can only use the toaster, but I assure you I never burn my toast."

She stared down at him blankly, deftly handing him more paper towels when she noticed the originals were soaked. He pressed the clean sheets to his nose, glad to see the bleeding had slowed.

"I assure you it's not just the blood loss induced hysteria talking."

A jet of air puffed from her nostrils in a sort of exasperated half laugh. She bowed her head, shaking it back and forth.

"I don't really have much of a choice do I?"

"Not at all," Clint beamed.

* * *

Thank you so much for your continued reading. There should be more soon now that I have abundance of free time.


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